Everything You Know is Wrong
by Artik Walsh
Summary: In which a certain army doctor finds out that his life is a cruel joke. Alternate title: "Obligatory 'Everyone Lies to John Watson' Story"


John Watson had a fairly ordinary life without Sherlock. He'd walk outside and pick up groceries. He'd step into an alley for a minute, holding back tears, recounting one of the many times he and his best mate had run down that very stretch of human waste. He'd head home to his girlfriend, Mary. He'd excuse himself after giving her a kiss on the cheek and lock himself in the loo, sobbing silently with the water running, shouting through the door that he needed a shower. His second that morning. He'd walk around the park, reminding himself of the time he met Mike Stamford that day, sitting on a bench. The day this all started.

In time, John Hamish Watson would find himself getting better at controlling his memories surfacing. He began to live a productive life again. Taking care of patients and falling deeply in love with Mary. The only girl he's stayed with for more than a few weeks. After all, there's no reason to love them and leave them to make Sherlock jealous. Not anymore. Well, not then. He would find the need some time later, but when he would already be committed to marry Mary.

Sherlock Holmes would re-enter John Watson's life at literally the worst possible time. Had he been a day, an hour, five minutes earlier, he could've had John all to himself forever. None of that _I must marry this ex-murderer_ nonsense. Of course, dear John woudn't find that bit out until a month after the wedding. A small while after she nearly shot and killed Sherlock. Well, after she shot and _nearly killed_ Sherlock.

John Watson had a topsy-turvy life with Sherlock back in it. Here they were, standing in front of each other, he saying goodbye, extending his hand. John looked down at Sherlock's extended hand and made no move to complete the gesture. He didn't believe this. He wouldn't! He wasn't about to lose Sherlock again! But then, he walked off. Onto the plane. It took off. John felt his patchwork heart tear a little again. He inhaled deeply, brooding for several minutes. _Then it happened._ Moriarty. His mind was reeling with possibilities.

_Perhaps_, he thought...

_"...you have a way out. Long as I'm alive, you can save your friends," Jim said. "See you!" And then it was that James Moriarty pulled a gun on himself, and put the cold steel between his exaggeratedly parted lips. He pulled the trigger. Blood spurted from his mouth and pooled at his head as he collapsed on the hard roof. Sherlock stared in disbelief as he tried to figure a way out. Or, he already knew his way out and was waiting for Mycroft. Or _something._ Sherlock jumped. Or, walked down the roof access stairs. Or the fire escape. Or _something._ Anyway, the body of Jim was left alone. Or rather, Jim was left alone. He slowly got up, cracked his neck and in one fluid, flourishing moment, ripped his wig off. That was his least favorite part of this dance. Shaving his head. He sighed and peeled the several strips of duct-tape that held the small, ruptured plastic bags that once held his own blood from his bald head. He chuckled softly. Scotland Yard wouldn't be clever enough to remember the little trick that Sherlock had to detect frozen, pre-stored blood. Nor would they check the bits of ground beef "grey matter" for authenticity. For all they knew, he had a member of his circle ready for body removal on standby. They wouldn't care too much about finding the body. Not with their starchild dead. All they'll know is there's blood on the roof and some witnesses reporting a gun discharge in the area. And that's all they need. They needn't know it was a blank. Or that he had strapped packets of blood to his scalp under a wig, ready for him to hit his head just so on the roof. Or the one he conveniently had tucked away in the corner of his mouth. Now he would lay low until Sherlock gets attention again. He's bound to revive himself. Dear old Missus Hudson wouldn't stand having an empty house._

John blinked. He was getting really good at thinking like Moriarty, it would seem. He shook that thought from his head and dismissed that scenario. The jet roared back and Sherlock stepped out, walking towards John. Sherlock tugged on his shirt collar awkwardly. "Er. Right. It seems my _brother,"_ he said this word with much too much spite for any human being to harbor, "is as indecisive as ever."

John silently told Sherlock to shut the hell up by embacing him. "Just... I _knew _you'd come back, Sherlock."

Sherlock stood back a bit and looked down at his best friend, scrunching his brow and flaring his nostrils slightly, in his best 'scrutiny face'. "Come now, John," he paused as if to relish the name coming from his own lips, "Even _I _don't have that much blind faith in me." He muttered under his breath,"Not that I have blind faith in anything. My confidence in myself is heavily grounded, I assure you. Regardless," he inhaled, saying to John and not himself, "Thank you."

John coughed purposefully as he said that. He cleared his throat, "Pardon?"

"Thank. You." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "_Honestly,_ John, learn to control your coughing. It's rude when people are spea-" his face went slack. "You did that just to hear me say it again, didn't you?" He scoffed in annoyance, swishing his coat as he walked to the car.


End file.
